Wheel of Fire
by Solanio
Summary: Bringing wrath and destruction, a throne of fire descends to Earth, only to find that things are not always so black and white as they are in Heaven.
1. Prelude

_The theme is angels as a variant in the World of Darkness. This and similar angel stories of mine present angels and their relationship to Man, God, demons, and each other in a much more dark and cynical perspective, common to modern gothic themes, than is typical for the subject. Thus it has something in common with books like Good Omens, films like the Prophecy, and games like In Nomine. Therefore it might not be suitable or enjoyable for those with strong convictions and beliefs about angels. - This story is part of an ongoing chronicle at my web site (see profile) using a shared character. If you would like to contribute to this particular character's chronicle, please stop by. And of course, any helpful hints and critques are most appreciated. - Cheers, Sol._

**Prelude**

_"And the smoke of their torment  
ascendeth up for ever and ever: and  
they have no rest day nor night who  
worship the beast and his image, and  
whosoever receivith the mark of his  
name."  
Revelation 14:11_

Racing down from heaven, the eloha Vyar knew he was upon the world when he felt his body feed upon the dry fabric of the weeds on the ground, setting them afire. He grew to gigantic proportion before stepping out of the fire, a semblance of Man. His appearance startled the apes who had gathered to fight the fire. That he had burned their crops was the least of their worries now. He who would one day wear one of their man-names as his own, he now came to deliver to them his charges, which were: fire, sorrow, destruction, and yes, death.

Vyar brandished his chain of fire and sweeping it like a scythe, he felled any assembled apes who rushed to defend their homes. He felt no pity for them, slaying them as he came upon them. Though Vyar did not consider himself a warrior among the elohim, he had been called upon to do a warrior's task and so he applied himself with diligence. Many of the apes tried to flee, females and cubs alike. He made no distinctions, slaying swiftly, piteously, until many were dead. The rest, seeing that they could not escape, bowed to him, begging for their lives. They offered him suppliance, as if he were a god. Their faith washed over him, empowering him. For a brief moment, he felt the power of worship and understood something of the sick sweetness that these creatures could give to those they tempted. Their suppliance had fueled other gods than the One and misguided prayers, such as these wretches tried to give to him now, such could be a powerful weapon in the hands of those who would abuse it. The Enemy was one such.

These apes had tried to pray both to the One and the Dark Prince who led the Fallen. Few had remained faithful. Unknowing to them, their prayers were tainted and had told the Captains of the Host about this duplicity, hence Vyar's arrival. The War of Wrath was not going well for the Faithful and though the Fallen had been cast from the heavens, they had found new refuge in the corporeal realm. Mankind was fast falling under their sway. It was time for harsh measures and a reminder that the apes were created by a jealous God who would share their obeisance with no others. Now the elohim came, not as teachers and guides, but as retribution.

"Do not pray to me. Cast down your idols and offer your prayers to the One, to whom I am only a servant. Offer him newborn lambs and the pick of your crops. Choose amongst you then priests to whom I will teach the Word of the One and how to enforce Heaven's laws."

Some of the apes fell to grief, howling over those Vyar had slain, shedding water from their eyes to fall like salty dew upon the burnt and broken bodies. He was not one who cared for the apes, one way or another. Like many of the elohim, he had been surprised to find that these animals had been chosen to be the first among the One's children, even over the elohim. And, when coming to the corporeal world, now having to wear a skin like theirs to exist within the Symphony, Vyar had felt at first some repugnance. But he did not resent them the way that some elohim did. Gazing at them in this way, Vyar felt some sense of pity for them. He wished another had been sent to do this task. He was a Throne, an Ofanim, higher than many of the elohim. Yet, so many had fallen now in the War that all choirs were expected to do their part without hesitation, and to do more besides.

Bereaving over his slain child, the leader of the village came forth, trying to swallow his pain. Vyar had spared this one old ape, knowing that if he reformed himself, most of the others in the village would do likewise. Apes were a very versatile, yet very predictable and ignoble animal, all too easy to sway. This man, calling himself Sheth, asked Vyar to intercede with the One for forgiveness. But his mind, instead of offering this thought with the fervent focus required, seemed too distracted by his slain cub. Vyar was told that this man had many such cubs. Perhaps this had been his favorite.

"Sheth, do you offer tears for your son, when a messenger of the One God stands before you? Bury your son and bring me another, one of your older sons, so that I may instruct you both in the ways of the ritual of sacrifice that you seem to have forgotten."

"I have no other sons," the man wailed, as if fearing this revelation would draw more wrath and death from Vyar.

Vyar gave this some consideration. Many of the apes now fought alongside the Fallen. They had become wicked and depraved, inconsiderate and defiant. Their faith and arms, as well as some songs taught to them by the Fallen, had made them potent enemies now in the War of Wrath. Their punishment would be great. It was even rumoured that the One planned to destroy all of Mankind save a few chosen in order to make it again, a salvaged seed to renew the World to be more pure and unsullied by the lies of the Enemy.

"Do you have no faithful sons? Do all serve the enemy?"

"I have no sons," was all Sheth would say, his body quivering with suppressed emotions.

"Then let us bury your remaining son in the manner I shall describe to you. You will use this ritual henceforward." Even in death, the apes would offer faith to the One through such rituals. In return, those souls who followed the correct way would rise to Heaven, blessed even above all but the highest of the elohim, to see the face of God.

Vyar followed Sheth and others bearing the dead to the place where the apes disposed of corpses. Vyar noted there a bloody altar, ringed by skulls and severed heads. Dried masses of what had once been human hearts lay piled alongside. Seeing this obvious ritual to the Enemy caused some measure of ire to awaken in Vyar. The apes were so uncaring that they spilled the blood of their own with abandon.

"Destroy this evil thing and we will cleanse it together." The place was an infernal link to Evil. Strange that it was unguarded. But such places were sadly so common that the Enemy neither feared nor cared if He should loose a few back to Heaven's grace. Sheth gave the order for the altar's destruction. However, when Vyar noticed Sheth caressing one of the skulls, he brandished his chain. "How dare you! Your repentance is obviously false! Your punishment will serve as notice to the others of what false worship brings!" Vyar's voice was that of doom.

Sheth screamed out. "Forgive me! This one was once my son. I only thought to give him a good burial so that his soul might also be saved, freeing him from the demons that surely torment him now.

"This was your son?" Vyar lowered his chain. He didn't want to appear indecisive, but he had not been appraised of this information. He looked at the other skulls. "How many of these were your sons?"

"All, Lord Angel." the old man choked, confusing Vyar with a choir of lower station.

"How was this done?"

"The demons demanded that I offer all my children but one in token of my allegiance. Had I not done so, our entire village would have been razed. I prayed that God would deliver us, but not until this day has he shown us his divine mercy by... by sending you, Lord Angel." He shook as he said this. " My last child, my son, the Lord above has seen fit to take today."

Vyar hadn't known this. His taking of the old man's last offspring would purely a matter of chance. He had been told, had assumed that the old man's prolific nature in youth had given him many sons and daughters. Had Vyar known, he might have...

"With pleading eyes, the old man looked up to Vyar, daring his eyes to try and comprehend the fiery glory before him. "Tell me, if we do as you say, will my children at least know peace from torment in the hereafter?"

But Vyar didn't answer him. God had grown quiet since the rebellion, speaking only through the eloha who served as his Voice. Would faith free this man's children from the clutch of demons? Truthfully, Vyar did not know.

**story by Solanio**


	2. Scars

Vargas watched the scene with intense fascination, even to the point of ignoring the flickering from the screen as it slowly redrew itself time and again. The images changed and taken together obviously were meant to imply motion. But it was so slow, he kept thinking. Understanding the intent of the effect, he still wondered how humans could content themselves with such crude art, if one could call it art. But then humans were a crude lot altogether, with less of the art and more of the crudeness than any other animal in the Symphony.

"What's on the tube?" The monkey was trying to draw him into conversation. She was nervous. He could smell her fear; he ignored her.

Since he wasn't really sure how to explain it, Vargas did not try. Near to what he could make of it, it was a morality play about a bear wearing a hat, who tried to steal food baskets but was often thwarted at every turn. Still, there was no real judgement or introspection. Typical of Man, how he could only think in these simple terms. But simple minds had ways to simple answers, never understanding the question. Perhaps that was why elohim were so fascinated with humans. Even those who, like Vargas, tended to deride them for their petty weaknesses, couldn't help but be drawn by their intense self-absorbing stupid wonderful innocence. Even at their worst, they were little more at children playing at evil. But still, even children can learn and that simplicity belied the exceptional minds, both good and bad, found in the vast cesspool of humanity. Sometimes, rare individuals could rise high. Not many elohim would admit it, but some few monkeys could comprehend more of the vastness of the Symphony than could any of the Celestials. And wasn't it this potential perhaps more than Mankind's stupidity that galled the elohim? Vargas didn't wonder if many of the Fallen hadn't started down this road, full of innocent yet burning questions born of pride.

"What's your name, hon?"

Vargas smelled her new clothing, reeking with the chemical processes that had made it, dyes, synthetics, plastic from the buttons. She was hiding in the bathroom, her body peppered with cheap scents of powder and soap bought from an all-night grocery store. Vargas closed his eyes, his mind searching for something. What was it? He saw it inside himself, a resonant darkness, a seed he kept well hidden, hoping that it would grow no larger. He touched a scar on his chest.

"Suppose that ten are found there?"

But that had been the problem, hadn't it? There hadn't been ten, or even one for that matter, not according to the reckoning used by Heaven that day. Gomorrah and Sodom really hadn't been worse than other cities. The depravity there had been found in so many other places. Why had the Boss chosen to put these places to the fire of Her wrath? Was it really just to prove a lesson to a monkey named Abraham? The Boss liked to play favorites, even among Her children, even to the point of saving that ever obsequious monkey, Lot. But even if they were only monkeys, Vargas still felt pain from the screams from their terror as he helped to raze their homes, scourge their skin with flails of fire, and with the rest of the elohite host, guide scorching stones from heaven to flatten their homes and melt the flesh from their bones. The children, hadn't they even counted in the tally? How could the infants among them be thought to have been anything but innocent? Michael had told him, told them all that the Boss' direction was not to be questioned. So they didn't. They just did what they were told. Vargas still remembered the woman of Gomorrah. She had obviously been a very wicked woman since the Boss wouldn't have ordered her death otherwise. But even so, she begged for mercy, not for herself, but for her newborn. When she used her body to cover her child, trying to protect it even while Vargas bore down on her with flaming sword in hand, had she been so wicked then? He had ended that crying soon enough, but its echo was with him still.

The pain he had felt he could not leave behind in the World when he flew back to Heaven. He had tried to cut himself with the same sword, still stained red, the woman, her child, all of them, all their blood. Perhaps if he could feel their pain, share in it, the memory of it would lessen in his mind. Michael had come upon him, seen the scar on his perfect chest and as punishment, marked him with it so that he would be known through all the Host for his weakness.

"You have a scar on your chest." Vargas spoke to the woman. Her name was Meagan.

"Well, the zombie finally speaks." She came out of the bathroom, wearing a grey sweatshirt and jeans. "In case you didn't notice, it's more than a scar. I had cancer. They had to take it off."

"I'm sorry," Vargas told her. Having been the instrument of so much suffering, Vargas was keenly aware of it. He didn't shy away from it, but he learned to respect it. It's resonance was strangely sweet to his senses, and that disturbed him, somewhat. "You've had a lot of pain in your life." He had listened to her call to someone in the night, her child, lost somewhere. He remembered that vision of a mother, trying desperately to protect the life born of her.

She laughed, but then caught herself, perhaps thinking better of it. "Yeah," she agreed to some internal question while drying her hair.

They didn't speak for a while which was fine for Vargas. But unfortunately, Vargas knew she was incapable of respecting the silence in the room. Rather than let the ambient noises of traffic and television fill the room, she had to hear her own voice, or anyone's voice lest her thoughts wander to avenues of her past, as haunting to her as Vargas' were to himself.

"Did you fight in the war?"

"Yes."

"So, was that Desert Storm?"

Vargas didn't think that much of a war, even for humans. "No, I fought in the First War."

Meagan obviously was confused by this reference. Not knowing what he was, her ignorance was excusable but hardly entertaining. "Um, you're not old enough. My great-grandfather fought in that war."

Yes, here it was at last, the link that had drawn him to her. Vargas was amazed he hadn't seen it before. Her face looked like his old servant's face. It was lost years ago for humans, but it seemed only yesterday to Vargas. That was why the Symphony had brought him here. The theme played so long ago had not played out as yet. It had subtly shifted and altered, but it was still the same, but in a different guise, that of this woman, Meagan. Perhaps it was time that he, Vargas, let her know something of herself and what would be expected of her.

"Yes, Michael Patrick O'Neil. He was maimed at Belleau Wood. Not much use to your great-grandmother after that. He came home neither man, nor dead, just somewhere in between. He had lost the battle of the bottle before we found him. We only just managed to save him. He served us well."

She paused, obviously perplexed. The expression on her face was the same as had been on her Grandfather's when Vargas first gathered him to the cause. She could then have true sight, as he did; a rare gift. But if so, like her ancestors, she had buried it deep in her mind, finding _reasonable_ explanations for the strange things she might see.

"You remind me of him," he told her. "You can call me, Vargas." Vargas had been fond of Patrick, as fond as one could be of a monkey. Hopefully this woman, his descendent, would serve as well. Hopefully also, she would end up better than he had.

"You can call me a cab," Meagan retorted. "Look, I'm sorry I got you into my mess. And I appreciate your saving my life from those goons. But I'm tired if this voodoo show. You are freaking me out and are in need of help. I hope you get it but for both our sakes, maybe just let us forget we ever met, OK?"

"I need you to drive me to Santa Cruz. They're expecting me."

"Meagan took out the Gremlin's car keys and tossed them to Vargas. "Take it."

Vargas let the keys rest on his chest. "I need you to take me there. We can leave after breakfast. You should get something to eat."

"I'm not taking you to Santa Cruz."

He got up. "Let's go. Take your things. We can leave after you eat."

He picked up her purse and offered it to her. She shook her head.

It was time for her training to begin. Vargas grabbed her arm, moving faster than her eye could follow, yet. He put her purse on her arm for her, telling her with his strength that she had no choice.

"You have nowhere else to go," he said. This was of course true. He did not know why, but he sensed it, not knowing or caring about the details. He turned off the T.V. and walked out the door. He stood, unblinking, gazing up at the sun, not caring that she might see his shadow.

Meagan joined him outside, donning a cheap pair of butterfly sunglasses. "You like pancakes?" she asked.

**story by Solanio**


End file.
